


a bird in the hand

by erebones



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexuality Spectrum, Demisexuality, Enthusiastic Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Gender Identity, Making Out, Marijuana, Morning Cuddles, Morning Sex, Nonbinary Character, Other, Sexual Identity, Sexual Inexperience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 05:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15879210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Molly wakes up in Fjord's bed with a couple of questions. What happened last night? Why is Fjord cuddling him like he's a favorite stuffed animal? And most importantly, why the fuck isn't he naked?





	a bird in the hand

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to losebetter for putting up with me while I beat my head against a wall and got it wrong a LOT. It still may not be perfect, but it's time to release it into the world! Thank you for reading!
> 
> EDIT: after some putzing around in this verse for a while i've decided to write molly as afab nonbinary who prefers he/him pronouns. He uses a variety of terms to describe his own genitalia.

Molly is sweating. Like, a lot. More than he usually does first thing in the morning, even bundled in his layered bedding in the dead of summer. He blinks his eyes open to the ceiling, trying to clear the haze. This isn’t his bed, for one thing. For another, he’s wearing clothes. Molly _never_ wears clothes to bed if he can help it. Curioser and curioser.

A heavy weight on his chest is made known to him when the bed’s other occupant shifts, and begins to gently snore. The subtle tension threading through his limbs evaporates at once. _Oh_. It’s only Fjord.

He cranes his neck with the utmost care, not wanting to spear his friend and occasional roommate with an errant horn in the wrong place, and finds his suspicions verified. Fjord is, for lack of a better term, _snuggling_ Molly to him like Molly is a glorified purple plushie, the giant ones that are always hanging just out of reach at the carnival, a few potshots away from victory. It would be cute if it wasn’t so fucking stuffy. His arm is across Molly’s ribcage, one leg flung haphazardly between Molly’s kneecaps, and his face is buried low against Molly’s shoulder, just out of reach of one sweeping horn.

And he’s naked. Almost. Stretchy boxer-briefs preserve his modesty, but Molly can’t for the life of him figure out why _Fjord_ is the one with hardly a stitch on while _Molly_ appears to be wearing an oversized white undershirt and a pair of soft sweatpants that are far too roomy in the crotch region to belong to him. He wiggles one foot free of the chunky duvet and sighs with relief at the rush of cool air.

And then he remembers. The brownies. Stepping into the shower while they cooled, and emerging quite some time later to find half his medicinals consumed by the hungry belly of his unsuspecting—and now very high—roommate. He chuckles in spite of himself at the memory, jiggling Fjord’s arm. The low, whuffling snore in his ear grinds to a halt.

“Mmp.” A pause, so long and drawn-out that Molly can practically hear the gears turning in Fjord’s head. He scritches his fingernails through Fjord’s hair to help the process along. “Mmmolly?”

“The very same,” Molly assures him lightly. _Lightly_ is the operative word. Light touch, light volume, even though his voice is scratchy as all hell. Keep it light and easy-breezy. Nothing to see here.

“Oh,” Fjord says after a minute. The tension suffusing his body bleeds away again under the drag of Molly’s nails against his scalp, and he pushes his face into the seam between the pillow and Molly’s upper arm. “I’m sorry I ate all your brownies and then sat on your lap for three hours.”

Molly quivers again with silent laughter. He wishes he could look down and admire Fjord more fully, but he wants to avoid an accidental goring. Instead he pats Fjord’s extended arm with his free hand. “I don’t mind. You left a _few_ for me.”

“But it’s.” Fjord drags himself up a little onto one elbow and rubs his own face vigorously. His eyes are a little puffy, lashes long like dark mascara smudged at the corners. Molly watches him peel sleep crust from the inner edges with a fond smile. “But it’s medicinal, though. You’ve gotta—you _need_ —”

“It’s fine, Fjord, I promise. I had a little left over from last month’s allowance, so I turned it into butter. There’s more in the fridge for another batch.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “So you know, if you’re up for round two…”

Fjord groans and flops back into the pillow. He still hasn’t let go of Molly yet.

Without any warning, Fjord bolts back upright, actually jamming some of his weight down on Molly’s sternum. Molly wheezes a protest, but it dissolves under Fjord’s horror-struck query: “ _Did we have sex last night?_ ”

Molly stares up at him blankly, still recovering from the unintended gut-punch. “What on earth makes you say that?”

Fjord gives him a pained look—a _please don’t make me clarify_ look—but Molly’s a bit stung by the question and he refuses to throw him a bone. “I’m… naked. And you said _round two_ …”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Molly wriggles out from underneath Fjord’s looming weight and throws the covers off entirely, flinging his arms out for inspection. “I’m _wearing clothes to bed_ , Fjord. You know I sleep naked, whether or not I have a friend along for the ride. Also,” and he swings his legs off the mattress, preparing to make good on his escape, “I’m not the sort to take advantage of someone when they’re under the influence. I would appreciate it greatly if you would remember that.”

“Moll—Molly, wait.” The bed creaks frenetically as Fjord scrambles to the edge of it, catching the end of Molly’s lashing tail in one hand before he can flee. Molly freezes, but Fjord doesn’t tug on him like he feared. “Molls. Please.”

It’s the _Molls_ that does it. Molly sighs and lets himself be drawn back in, turning to stand beside the bed. Fjord is up on his knees at the edge of the mattress, which puts them almost of a height with one another. Molly digs his toes into the carpet and inspects his face for honesty. “What is it, darling?”

Fjord’s shoulders slump and he crooks a crooked grin. Ever hopeful. Like a puppy that knows it’s fucked up and knows it will always be forgiven. Molly should probably discourage him from fondling his tail like that, but it feels too nice. “I’m sorry, Molls,” Fjord says gently. “I didn’t mean to imply that you would… take advantage. I just, my mind was all blurry and jumbled, and I know I get… erm, huggy when I’m high. And I thought, if you were high too, well.” He shrugs. “I wouldn’t have blamed you. Or me. I wouldn’t have… minded.”

Molly’s chest feels very warm and tight all of a sudden. He feels a flash of regret that he’s so unkempt, mouth foul, hair a mess, and then he shoves it down again. _You’re being absurd. It’s just Fjord._

“You wouldn’t have minded,” he echoes. Smooth, Tealeaf.

“I mean.” Fjord is blushing, Molly thinks—the curled-up tips of his ears are folded back slightly, and the muted gradient of his cheeks is a little greener than usual. “I don’t have much experience with this sorta thing, so I—I’ve always thought it would be nice if it happened to… happen… with a friend.”

There is _so_ much information packed into those halting sentences. Molly doesn’t know where to start, and Fjord’s making it difficult to focus with the gentle back and forth of his thumb just behind the spade of Molly’s tail. “You’ve thought about this,” he blurts out at last. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he folds his arms over his chest, but that feels… standoffish, restricting, so he drops them again and plucks uselessly at the seams of his borrowed sweats. “You’ve thought about… me. _Us._ ” He can hardly bring himself to say it out loud. “Fjord, I thought you were _gay_.”

“I am!” he exclaims, almost defensively. “I mean… yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Wait a minute.”

Molly bites back laughter. “I’m not a man, Fjord.”

“I know that,” Fjord says with utmost certainty. It settles the little blip of discomfort in Molly’s gut and replaces it with fondness. “Does… does that preclude…”

Molly takes pity on him and sits on the edge of the bed, knee to knee, looking out the half-shaded window. They must have forgotten to close it last night. On the floor are a pair of Molly’s jeans, rumpled and forlorn, a lacy bit fabric poking out from underneath.

Vague images resurrect themselves in Molly’s head: Fjord, curious and giggly as Molly showcased a pretty twinset he picked up in Zadash. Then, afterward, when Molly began to get goosebumps, Fjord bundling him into a shirt and sweatpants and burrowing them into bed where it was soft, and warm, and safe.

“Your identity is your own,” he says at last, gently, when it becomes apparent that Fjord isn’t sure how to proceed. “I’m just saying I… well, I didn’t expect to fit the bill, I suppose.”

“Well, I mean.” Fjord cracks a wavering laugh as he rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “You’ve seen yourself. You’re.” He gestures awkwardly at nothing in particular. “ _You_ know.”

This is slightly more familiar territory, even if it’s _Fjord_ stammering over Molly’s looks. Molly had always pegged him as having a thing for Caleb, but it’s hard to deny the way Fjord is looking at him from under his lashes, a little askance, blushy and shy. Molly sighs and tries to be upset with him. “Are you saying I’m your _exception_ , Fjord?”

The face Fjord makes is instantaneous and gratifying: a wrinkled nose and a moue of the mouth that echoes the discomfort Molly feels. “That’s kind of shit, isn’t it,” Fjord says. It’s not a question. “It doesn’t _feel_ right, either. It’s not—you’re not my exception. I think… sometimes it feels like _everyone_ is my exception. I mean, not everyone-everyone, but, y’know, the handful of people that I… would willingly get into bed with.”

“You’re in bed with _me_ ,” Molly teases. It’s a reflex, but it feels necessary right now. They’re both a little bit hungover, probably; not the best time or place for this kind of conversation without a little something to lighten the mood.

“Not like—” Fjord begins, and sighs. “You know what I mean.”

 _Not much experience_ , he said before. Molly wonders what that means. Zero? Some? A bit of fumbling behind the boy’s cabin at summer camp? He wants to ask, but he doesn’t know if Fjord wants to _be_ asked. With a little conciliatory sigh, Molly reaches out and combs his nails through the downy-soft hair at Fjord’s nape. Fjord’s eyes droop shut and he leans sideways into the contact.

“I’m still figuring it out,” Fjord says out of the blue. His eyes are still shut, and he’s got a little purr starting in the back of his throat, but his voice is serious. “Calling myself gay _feels_ right—it always has. If you were a woman, I wouldn’t—but you’re not. Maybe things are a little fuzzier around the edges than I always thought; maybe if something happened we’d get partway through and I’d change my mind. But.”

“But?” Molly echoes, hardly daring to breathe.

He doesn’t know what he’s hoping for. His appreciation for Fjord (and Caleb, but he’ll never breathe a word of _that_ to anyone, Fjord least of all) has always lived behind a thick pane of glass, observable but never acted upon. But the ground beneath his feet is no longer quite so certain, and each word Fjord speaks into the morning stillness feels like another crack in the wall.

“It’s hard to describe,” Fjord says at last. “Sex just isn’t high on my list of priorities, I guess. When I _am_ interested in someone, it’s always a guy or… or a male-presenting person.” He glances at Molly out of the corner of his eye like he’s looking for confirmation. Molly nods and digs his fingers a little more firmly into the nape of Fjord’s neck. Fjord leans into it, head bowed, throat working like he’s trying to summon words that won’t come. Eventually he just sighs, deflated, and says, “I don’t want this to change anything, I guess. You’re one of my best friends, Molls. I have… a great affection for you. That comes before anything else.”

“And the same goes for me, darling,” Molly replies. _Scritch scritch scritch._ The purr has become a full-fledged rumble, vibrating through the tips of his fingers. “I’m a little more used to this sort of thing than you, so don’t worry about juggling the pieces alone. I am an _expert_ circus performer, after all.” He winks and hopes for a smile, but Fjord is still deep in thought.

“Do you,” Fjord says slowly, “not… want me to be?”

“Not want you to be what?”

“To be—to find you, um, attractive.”

Molly laughs a little. “I’m never going to say no to _that_ , my dear. A person likes to be told they’re good-looking. I’ve never claimed to not be vain as _fuck_.”

Fjord snort-laughs, winces, and buries his face in his hands. “Gods, my head hurts.”

“You did eat a _lot_ of brownies last night. So did I for that matter. And look—this is a complicated conversation, and it’s a good one to have, but for the record… this is all _off_ the record, as it were.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well. I know my own mind, but it’s possible you’re still feeling it a little bit. From last night. I don’t care,” he adds quickly when Fjord sits up straight. “I just don’t want to… muddy the waters. You know.”

Fjord curls his hands against the tops of his thighs like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching out. “I’m fine, I promise. A little thirsty, but.” Slowly, he relaxes his hand and turns the one closest to Molly palm-up, so it rests on his thigh like an invitation. “I guess I’m saying… I’m okay. All of this…” He twirls his hand in the air between them. “I didn’t mean to just spill all of that, and we can ignore it if you like, but I… wanted to be honest with you.”

Molly waits a beat, then slides his fingers to slot between Fjord’s. Fjord’s hands are so much bigger than his own, weathered and work-roughened, but gentle. It settles him, reminds him that underneath everything else—the questions, and the uncertainty, and the fragile new territory unfolding before them like a delicate frost-flecked valley—this is _Fjord_. One of his first and dearest friends.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, and gives his hand a squeeze. “I’m going to get up and make some coffee before we talk anymore; I think we both could use some caffeine. What do you say?”

Fjord smiles and leans into him a little, bumping elbows. “Yeah. That sounds good to me.”

* * *

The wreck of last night is still painfully present when Molly makes his way to the kitchen. Crumbs are scattered all over the counter among thick dustings of flour, the mixing bowl sits half-full of water in the sink, crumpled scraps of wax paper decorate the cooling racks where once a full batch of pot brownies sat innocently to cool. Now there are only three, forlorn and a bit dried-out at the edges.

Molly passes them by for the coffee pot. He brought good coffee with him from Nicodranas when they passed through on their way to Port Damali, and he takes his time preparing it: grinds the whole beans, wets the paper filter, and leans against the counter with his head on his arms and his bum sticking out, tail swishing lazily as he listens to the gurgle and drip of the coffee pot. The sharp smell of percolating coffee fills his nose, then mellows, rich and warm as it fills the kitchen.

He hears the slow padding footsteps of Fjord moving into his space but he stays put, stretching out the slight ache in his lower back. A moment later he feels a warm hand descend to lay against his spine. He hums into his forearms and lets his tail flick sideways, tapping Fjord’s calf.

“Coffee’s almost done,” he mumbles, and then breaks off into a shameless groan as Fjord digs his thumbs into his back to either side of his tailbone. “Fuck _me_ that’s nice.”

Fjord’s grumbly, growly laugh fills the kitchen and warms Molly all the way down to his toes. “I know you get sore after a long day in the van, so.”

“I mean the brownies helped, I’m not gonna lie, but…” Molly’s voice dries up as Fjord finds a particularly stubborn knot halfway up his back and puts his thumb straight into it. It hurts like fuck, but in a good way. Heat that’s been lying dormant under his skin springs suddenly to the surface.

“Molls?” Fjord says suddenly. His hands are still on Molly’s back, but they’ve stilled, resting smooth against the obviously borrowed shirt hanging from Molly’s thin frame. “Okay?”

“Mm? Yes, fine. Why d’you ask?”

“You’re just… very warm suddenly.” Moving slowly, like he’s waiting for a boundary to be erected, Fjord slides open palms up Molly’s back and rubs between his shoulder blades. “How’s the ink?”

“It’s good.” Molly shoves his palms into his eye sockets and tries to rub the sleep away, tries to pull himself together. “Would you like to see?”

“If you want to show me.”

“Of course.” Molly straightens up from the counter and wriggles out of the borrowed shirt, holding the neck wide with his hands to keep it from catching on his horns. With his head inside, he can smell Fjord still lingering on the cloth, a bit of sweat and spice melded into the fabric. He shakes his head a little when he pops out the bottom and turns, one hand to the waistband of his sweatpants to make doubly sure they don’t slip free where they’re hooked beneath his tail. “Don’t mind the tail.”

Fjord chuckles. “Sorry for making you put those on. I forgot about tail logistics.” His hand grazes the top of Molly’s back lightly, where his month-old ink has finally begun to heal. “It’s beautiful. So intricate.”

“Thank you.” He holds the memory of it in his mind’s eye: the moon and sun together, shining down on a field of flowers, the stars and constellations cradled between them. “It’s just the linework. I’ll have to go back in half a year or so to have it finished.” It’s a long haul up to see his artist, but always worth it.

“Coffee’s done, I think,” Fjord says. He drops his hand and Molly busies himself with dolling out coffee. He plops two cubes of brown sugar into Fjord’s and three into his own, and turns. And smiles.

Fjord has changed into a different pair of boxer-briefs—maroon this time—and one of Molly’s bathrobes is open across his chest, the silky tie dangling almost to the floor from one belt loop. There’s a bit of scarring across his chest that Molly doesn’t remember seeing, and he’s gained a little weight, thank goodness. He’d grown so thin last winter, plagued by a deep-seated chill that wouldn’t let him be.

“You’re staring,” Fjord says suddenly, wrenching Molly’s gaze back to his face. “Should I not have…?”

“What? Oh, no, of course not.” He eyes the borrowed robe with its smooth silken sheen, the seams straining a little beneath Fjord’s broad shoulders. “It suits you.”

Fjord grins at him, crooked and sheepish, and Molly’s mouth suddenly feels dry as a desert. “Like what you see?” Fjord asks softly.

“Obviously.” Molly presses one of the mugs into Fjord’s hands and turns his attention to his own mug before he can make even more of a fool of himself.

He sidesteps Fjord’s bulk and moves into the living room, staring out the floor to ceiling window. Fjord’s little apartment is decently high up, and from here Port Damali unfolds before him like a multicolored quilt, gleaming with high spires and the low patchwork sprawl of the docks. The familiar sight steadies him a little, reminds him of his place in the world. In this house. A sometimes-friend, flitting in and out of Fjord’s life as the whim and the winds take him. Nomad he might be, but he is no Yasha, subject to the strange energy that she carries with her wherever she goes; he needs a sticking point, a home to direct his compass toward. For a long time that was Gustav. These days it feels more like a tiny two-room apartment on the third floor of a narrow townhouse backed into the hills, lumpy and cozy and always smelling a little bit like the sea.

When he’s had enough coffee to feel like a real person again, he turns and finds Fjord plucking ineffectually at the mess on the counter. He’s discarded the robe altogether—embarrassment? Discomfort?—and now Molly can see the crisscross of pale, wandering scars across his back, punctuated with stitch-marks where once thin thread held his flesh together. He wants to ask, and yet he’s afraid to. He knows a little. Knows enough. Fjord will give up the rest when he’s ready.

“Leave it,” Molly says, nudging him with a hand to his elbow. “We can clean up later.”

Fjord pauses. He’s still staring down at the countertop, a strange, intent furrow to his brow, like he’s trying to command the crumbs and scraps to spring up and look after themselves. He only moves when Molly moves, responding to the hand on his upper arm with a breath and a soft, half-formed smile that takes Molly’s breath away. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Molly _tsks_ a little and shakes his head. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

“Doing what?”

Molly gestures toward the broad expanse of Fjord’s bare skin, variegated and scarred and plush in places, sprinkled with fleck of dark hair that curl shyly as if they aren’t sure they’re allowed to be there. “Parading around like this, when you _know_ you’re the handsomest half-orc I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on.”

It’s difficult sometimes to tell when Fjord is blushing, due to the shifting color of his skin, but the deep blue-green that crawls up his cheeks is unmistakable. “That’s, er, very kind of you, but I’m—”

“But what? But nothing! I know what I said, and I meant it.” Molly finishes the last sip of his coffee and sets the mug down on the counter with a decisive _clack_. “All right. Are we doing this or not?”

“Doing…?”

“ _This_.” Molly flaps his hands in the air again in a vague circle that encompasses the two of them.

“I thought—I mean, I didn’t think you wanted to.” Fjord rubs a nervous hand across his mouth. “I know it was presumptuous of me to, um, suggest…”

“Not presumptuous at all,” Molly soothes. “It’s flattering, truly. And you don’t have to feel obligated to follow through, but the offer is still on the table. For what it’s worth.”

“It’s worth a lot, in my opinion,” Fjord says quietly. He takes an aborted half-step toward Molly before hesitating, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. Molly lets his tail curl forward, coiling around Fjord’s ankle. Fjord sucks in a breath. “Er. Can I—”

“Yes _please_. And like I said before, no strings atta—mmf!”

Fjord’s mouth cuts him off, and his arms around Molly’s waist catch him up, off-guard in the best way. It feels just as nice as Molly always imagined. Fjord is _big_ , strong in that bone-deep, steady way of a man accustomed to manual labor, and the sensation of their chests pressed together is almost more than Molly can bear.

The kiss mellows after a long minute or two, like Fjord jumped in head first and is now slowly easing back to the surface for air. Molly sucks his lower lip into his mouth and releases it with a soft _pop_.

“How was that?” he whispers. His hands have found themselves to either side of Fjord’s face, attracted like magnets to the warmth and stubbly abrasion of his skin. Fjord turns into his palm and nuzzles there, kissing the meat of Molly’s thumb and pushing his nose between his fingers like a cat demanding pets. Molly chuckles and rubs the bridge of Fjord’s crooked nose with his thumb. “Good?”

“Mmm.” Fjord slides open hands down Molly’s bare back and lingers at the sacrum, cradling him loosely against his chest. “Yeah.” His nose flirts with Molly’s, eyes half-shut and languid. “Again?”

For answer, Molly rocks onto his toes and kisses him.

If he had been asked to peg Fjord down before this, Molly would’ve guessed him to be an overly-cautious kisser. Nothing could be further from the truth. Fjord is _hungry_ , insatiable even, licking into Molly’s mouth and sucking on his tongue and biting sweet little smiling teeth against his lower lip. He’s like a starving man suddenly given a feast. Molly trembles on the edge of _just enough_ and _too much_ —and then it’s like a switch is flipped and Fjord eases off, rubbing his back and slowing the all-consuming rhythm of his mouth.

“Sorry,” Fjord mumbles. He presses a sweet kiss to the arch of Molly’s brow bone, where it swoops up to the horn that sprouts from his forehead. “Got a little excited.”

“Darling, there’s no need for apologies.” Molly cocks his head at him, curious. “Why did you stop?”

“You froze up a second and I realized I was probably comin’ on too strong.” He peers at Molly from under his brows, kind and serious. “You know you don’t have to feel obligated, Molls. To… do this for me.”

“It _was_ a lot all at once,” Molly allows, “but that doesn’t mean I’m not still interested. Perhaps…” and he drops his hands to Fjord’s shoulders, pulling him backward just a little. “Perhaps you’d like to be somewhere a little more comfortable?”

“Yeah.” Fjord gives his waist a squeeze and lets him go. “That sounds like a good idea.”

Docile as a lamb, Fjord allows Molly to lead him through the small apartment to the bedroom. The sheets are rumpled and tossed as they had left them, Fjord’s old boxers shed at the lip of the hamper. Fjord perches hesitantly at the foot of the bed, looking up at him with wide yellow eyes, lashes long and smudged at the corners. He blinks when Molly cups his cheek, languid and slow—there are nerves inside him, still, twitching at the tips of his fingers and tapping in his toes, but he leans into Molly’s touch and makes no protest when Molly sits astride his broad thighs and settles in his lap.

It feels a bit like directing an act in the big tent—giving a cue and waiting for it to be received and acted upon, then moving on to the next. Molly’s weight in his lap seems to ground Fjord. His restless hands soothe themselves on Molly’s ribs, tracing the winding whorls of color that climb up to his neck and shoulder. Molly lets his tail curl around Fjord’s calf and leans down to kiss him again.

The lovely thing is that it’s starting to familiar. No more cautious testing of the waters—they are learning, by touch and by sigh, how best to please one another. Fjord’s taste is no longer strange to him, and Fjord in turn seems to have found his feet. He touches Molly boldly, but not with force, each movement made with care.

Molly has a difficult time explaining his preferences, sometimes, and that makes Fjord’s quick study all the more delightful. Getting off is rarely his end goal. Intimacy is a spectrum of many flavors, all clamoring to be noticed by his sexual palate, and sometimes the sensory overload is too much. But this—Fjord’s deliberation, his tenderness, how readily he’ll shift and recede at the slightest word from Molly—this is perfect. This is exactly what he needs. And his body is beginning to realize it.

“This is good,” he whispers, unprompted, into the prickle of Fjord’s hairline. He is sitting well back on Fjord’s lap, still, but leaning into the texture of Fjord’s palms on his bare arms and collarbones. A bud of warm arousal sits low in his belly, petals peeling open under the warm suction of Fjord’s lips on his throat.

“Yeah?” Fjord murmurs against skin. He turns his cheek a little, scrapes a bit of stubble just below Molly’s jaw. A small noise escapes him and he clamps down on Fjord’s broad shoulders, feeling the toothy smile as Fjord sucks more firmly at the base of his throat. Panting, Molly clings to him for dear life, reveling in the throb of heat slowly building in his core.

Then, with painstaking slowness, Fjord _feels him up_ , sliding his large, calloused hands down from Molly’s shoulders to his chest. Molly’s brain short-circuits for a second. Fjord’s hands are on his tits, moulding to his chest, rolling his thumbs against his nipples… and it’s _so fucking good_. Molly groans, a cracked, untenable sound, and Fjord breaks away with a little gasp.

“Oh. That’s—is that all right, then? You like that?”

“I really fucking do,” Molly says with fervor, and digs his fingers into Fjord’s hair to pull him back in. He gives the kiss a little more teeth and is rewarded: Fjord’s fingers tug at his nipples, ruthless and impossibly gentle, until tears spring to Molly’s eyes.

“I want to,” Fjord says against Molly’s collarbone, his throat, avoiding his horns to suck bright vermillion bruises into his skin, “I want to, can I?”

“Please,” Molly gasps. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, but he wants it. He wants all of it. He trusts Fjord more than almost anyone else in this exact moment, and when Fjord laves his broad, open tongue against Molly’s chest, one side and then the other, Molly cries out and feels heat swell sharply between his legs, insistent and impossible to ignore.

“Molls…?”

“I’m fine, it’s fine, it’s—it’s amazing. I need to lay down.” Molly wipes Fjord’s saliva off his mouth with the back of his hand and presses in, hands wandering. Under his touch, Fjord is solid and smooth-skinned, soft insulatory fat over muscle. And warm, so warm—sweat is rising lightly to his skin as Molly presses him down to lay flat on his back, feet still firmly on the floor. “Can we—”

“Here, let me—”

It’s a group effort. They’re both having trouble keeping their hands to themselves, but it works out somehow; Fjord finally scoops Molly into his arms as though he weighs nothing and turns, walking on his knees until he can dump Molly on his back against the pillows. He loses his balance as he goes, distracted by Molly’s fingers in his mouth, and they tumble to the mattress together in a mess of limbs and hysterical laughter.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Fjord says through giggles. He takes Molly’s hands and kisses them, the backs, the palms, the knuckles, all the way up his scarred arms to the center of his tattooed chest, and then his mouth. Sticks his tongue in there and lets Molly suck it, hard. “You have a tongue piercing?”

“Yeah.” Molly sticks his tongue out at him, laughing. He’s got a blue bead in there currently, round and painted with a little white crescent moon. “Like it?”

“Yeah.” Shy again. Fjord curls against his side, hand stroking hesitantly up and down Molly’s ribs. “Like _you_.”

“Aw. Baby.” Molly leans in and kisses the tip of his nose. “I like you, too.”

Fjord rumbles something unintelligible and bassy, scoops a hand under Molly’s spine and curves over him like a stormcloud, arching and undeniable. One knee nudges between Molly’s.

“Wait. Darling, a moment—” Molly hooks his hands in the waistband of his borrowed sweats and pauses. “Is it all right if I take these off? I’m not… I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

Fjord opens his mouth and pauses, golden eyes black with pupil, fingers clenching in the fitted sheet fit to tear. “I—”

“You can say no,” Molly assures him. It’s a little warm, truth be told, but he’d rather Fjord be comfortable.

“Maybe. Not just yet?” Fjord stammers. “Is that—that’s stupid, isn’t it—”

“It isn’t. Nothing is stupid, okay? I need you to know that.” Molly grabs his shoulders and stares up into Fjord’s anxious expression. It shouldn’t be a relief to know that Fjord is still feeling his way through this as much as Molly is, but it is. “I know this is just a bit of fun exploration between friends, but it still—it still means something, doesn’t it? So if one of us isn’t having fun, we say so, and we figure out how to have fun another way. Okay?”

Fjord blinks and the worry is relegated elsewhere, leaving him calm and bright-eyed again. “Okay.” He bends down, down, nose to nose, lips almost brushing Molly’s. Molly _aches_. “Can I kiss you?”

“Please. _Please_ kiss me.”

Fjord does. Thoroughly. He’s a little obsessed with Molly’s tongue ring, now that he’s been given tacit permission to explore it, and for a while their kisses are little more than open-mouthed, unrefined licking, punctuated by heaving breaths and wandering hands.

And oh, how Molly wanders. Fjord’s chest is delightful, flecked with dark hair but mostly smooth, broad, with plenty of room for Molly to drag his nails and squeeze the excess flesh. Fjord groans against his lips. The hand braced at Molly’s back presses lower, flirting with the beginnings of Molly’s tail. Molly hisses and lifts his hips into it, encouraging him.

“It’s good,” he breathes when Fjord pulls back to double check. He scoots up the bed a bit, easing the borrowed sweats down a little more. Fjord’s hand follows, encircling the base, the knuckle of his thumb nudging at the beginning of Molly’s asscrack.

“It doesn’t hurt?” Fjord asks, breathless.

“Mmm, no.” He braces his heels on the mattress and rocks up again, nudging Fjord’s hand to movement. Heat is building in his pelvis at a rapid pace, and as he rocks up he can feel the telltale bulge in Fjord’s briefs nudging against him. “Fjord…” His voice cracks down the middle, clean and sudden as a lightning-strike. “Fjord, please.”

Fjord lets go of his tail, to his chagrin, but makes up for it by bracing himself on both elbows and lowering himself to meet Molly’s body with his own. Their hips slot together neatly, and even through their clothes, it’s electrifying. Real slow, Fjord ducks his head and marches a little line of kisses across Molly’s collarbones. “Like this?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” Molly chokes. “Perfect, exactly like that.” He lets his thighs sprawl wide, as wide as they’ll go, and rubs the flat of one foot along Fjord’s calf in encouragement. Smooth, nubbed baby tusks scrape lightly over his chest as Fjord rocks back and forth. Easy. Tidal. Molly wraps his arms around Fjord’s neck and pulls him down into a kiss. “Your cock is enormous,” he whispers when it breaks, a strand of saliva connecting their lips for a moment before snapping. He shifts restlessly and groans at the hot swell, the quickening primal shove of their hips.

“It’s—I mean—is it?” Fjord stammers. He follows Molly’s lead, laying harder against him until Molly is neatly sandwiched between the mattress and Fjord’s solid weight. Their rut slows, becomes more of a lazy grind. He’s too numb with pleasure to try for more kisses, but their lips slide together anyway as they pant into each other’s faces. “Is this… enough? Do you want more?”

“It’s amazing. You’re amazing, a natural.” He’s babbling a little, but Molly can forgive himself. He gets his heel up and digs it into the small of Fjord’s back. “I don’t need anything more complicated than this, this is—is—oh _fuck_.”

Fjord shifts his weight again, switching to the other arm so he can get a hand around the fabric of Molly’s sweatpants. He tugs slowly, forehead to forehead, his unfocused yellow eyes a silent query. Molly licks his lips and drags his hands away from Fjord’s glorious head of hair long enough to help push the sweatpants down his hips. They stretch around his ankles, trapped by Fjord’s knees, but neither of them feel inclined to move.

“Fuck,” Fjord echoes agreeably. He leans his forehead against Molly’s chest, avoiding his horns, and smoothes a hand down Molly’s heaving belly to press, casually, the flat of his thumb right at the start of his pubic bone.

Molly is fastidious with his privates out of sheer personal preference, so the skin there is smooth and hairless, inviting Fjord’s tactile curiosity. At Molly’s encouraging hum, he strokes the flat pad of his thumb against the little silver bead gleaming there. Molly tenses his thighs and breathes, struggling with the part of him that wants to rub himself off against Fjord’s steady hand, sloppy and graceless.

“You have such a pretty—” Fjord stammers and his throat closes up before he can finish the sentence. It’s adorable. Molly laughs and tips his hips up into Fjord’s hand.

“Thank you. It’s not as impressive as yours, but I like to think the jewelry makes up for it.”

Fjord blushes harder—Molly can _feel_ it, the heat rising to his skin, can hear the blood pounding between the thin layers of skin where cheek presses to cheek. He smudges a kiss against Fjord’s slack lips and gets a moue in response.

“It’s not a dirty word, you know,” Molly murmurs against his lips. He pulls back a bit and forms the hard, cutting consonant against his palate with relish.

Fjord’s hesitant touch falters. “I know that,” he says stubbornly. “I just… it’s new to me. That’s all. Touching someone else’s…” Another drawn-out pause and then his brow and his voice firm in unison as he finishes, “someone else’s cock.”

Molly titters, delighted at Fjord’s little sliver of defiance. “There we are,” he says, or begins to say, but is muffled by another demanding kiss.

“You’re distracting me,” Fjord complains against his mouth.

Molly snickers. “Oh, my sincere apologies.” He wraps a hand around Fjord’s wrist and encourages him lower, to get his thick, calloused knuckles rubbing slow against his slick core. “Is it all right? D’you need to stop, or slow down at all?”

“I—” Fjord cuts himself off, hoarse with incredulity. “I’m great. I’m really, really great. I mean, I’ve got my hand on your bits, so—unless _you_ want to slow down?”

“Oh, no.” He grins and bucks into Fjord’s loosening grip. “But it still doesn’t hurt to hear it.” Molly kisses the side of his nose, his upper lip, the little bit of firmer bone hiding beneath his gums. Fjord grumbles at that last and licks at Molly’s lips until the tiefling opens for him, laughing. “You kiss like—” he begins, and then stops. _Like a dog_ , he was about to say, but he knows better. Half-orc children aren’t looked upon with much fondness, and he’s been Fjord’s friend long enough to know which teasing names strike deep as fresh-forged iron.

“Like what?” Fjord murmurs, smiling down at him. His eyes are all wrinkled and soft at the edges, and his hand moving slow against his cunt is so, so sweet, so _achingly_ good that Molly’s breath catches in his chest.

“Like you mean it,” he says instead, and that is also true. He watches Fjord’s brows wrinkle up together, just a little, and a hesitant smile grace his kiss-bruised mouth.

“I do mean it, Molls.”

Molly takes a deep, fortifying breath. “I know.” He cups Fjord’s face in his hands and traces those green-dappled cheeks with his thumbs. “I know.”

Down below, Fjord’s wrist gives a clever twist, and Molly’s back arches off the mattress. Fjord grins. Eyes sparkling, pleased with himself. “Hang on a minute,” he says, and kisses Molly one more time for good measure before sitting back on his heels. He fumbles with his briefs, accidentally snapping the elastic against his hip—bites out a curse, laughing, and finally he’s naked, and Molly is naked too, freed at last of the borrowed sweatpants as Fjord drags them off his ankles.

Molly gasps a little; he can’t help it. Fjord’s built like a tank, fit from working at the docks, but still thick-set in the shoulders and middle. His thighs are like two trees where he kneels in the rumpled sheets, and between them his cock hangs heavy and full, foreskin pulled back over the dewy head, his sac an even darker shade of green.

“You look like you should be a sculpture,” Molly breathes, pushing himself up to sitting. He reaches out, tracing a winding path from Fjord’s throat, carotid artery pulsing frantically beneath the skin, down one pectoral to his heaving ribs and the deep dimple of his bellybutton. Molly lingers there, tracing a light circle around it with the tip of one well-groomed claw, and grins with satisfaction to see Fjord’s cock twitch. A little bead of fluid wells at the tip as Molly watches, threatening to fall.

“Molls,” Fjord says hoarsely. “I’m not—”

“Not what, darling?” Sensing his discomfort, Molly leans back against the pillows, legs still open invitingly. He drags his nails along his own inner thighs, leaving the slightest mauve trails behind.

“Not used to… to bein’ _seen_.” Fjord lays his hands on Molly’s upturned knees tentatively, pressing them just a little more open. The tendons in Molly’s pelvis pull, a good, easy stretch—he achieves more on the yoga mat every day, but this is _Fjord_ pushing his legs apart, putting him on display. Heat flares again in his groin at the thought. “I. I know it’s kinda hypocritical, but…” His golden eyes zero in on Molly. The silver piercing the top of his labia glints in the early morning light as Fjord licks his lips. “I’d really like to look at _you_ instead.”

“Take your time,” Molly wheezes. His toes curl against the sheets and he flings his arms wide, giving himself up to be admired. He understands Fjord’s reservations, but has few of his own—he knows he looks good, and he’s proud and pleased to show it off to someone who will properly appreciate it. At _Molly’s_ pace, which is a much rarer find.

Fjord takes him at his word. Molly’s whole pelvic region throbs as Fjord rubs his open palms slowly along his thighs, his lower belly. His hooked nose burrows curiously into the slight divot of Molly’s navel, and a low, raspy chuckle escapes when Molly swats at his head playfully. He relents and kisses his way up Molly’s belly, between his tits to his throat where he lingers at the instruction of Molly’s hand in his hair.

“You can leave marks,” Molly rasps. “I don’t mind.”

“Mmm.” Fjord nuzzles back down in a leisurely fashion, tracing the petals inked into Molly’s chest with his tongue. He finds his way to one nipple and lingers there. His tongue curls and laps, soft repetition that scrapes deliciously against Molly’s nerve endings. Molly gasps for breath and clings to the sheets hard enough he’s sure he’s leaving puncture holes behind, but he can’t help it. Fjord is so thorough, perfectly content to brace himself there and suck on Molly’s nipples until he’s ready to scream. And maybe he _would_ scream, from sheer frustration, except that his hips are working, too—Fjord’s soft belly rubs against Molly’s crotch in sweet little pulses that sink Molly’s head deeper and deeper into the pillow until he fears he’ll never climb out.

“Can I,” Fjord says suddenly, letting Molly’s nipple go with a wet _pop_. His own hips are gyrating in uncontrollable circles against the bedding as he digs bruises into Molly’s inner thigh. “I’d like to—”

“Words, darling.” Molly traces his lower lip and dips to fingers inside, petting his smooth, wet tongue before withdrawing. “Or I can’t give you what you want.”

“I’d… like to get off. With you.” Fjord makes a face at his own phrasing, but Molly thinks it’s sweet. “I don’t know how you prefer to—”

“Oh, any old way. I’m not picky.” Molly rubs his broad shoulders appreciatively, coaxing him up the bed. “Come lay against me, I want to feel you. Don’t worry about the mess, I’ve got an IUD.”

Fjord comes, bracing himself on his elbows until Molly knocks him to one side a little, thighs slotted together like spoons in a drawer. Molly feels like he’s coming apart at the seams—he hardly needs anything more than this, just the friction of Fjord’s cock rubbing flat against him, the smell of his sweat, and earnest way he presses desperate little kisses against Molly’s jaw.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” Molly sighs, digging into Fjord’s meaty hip for purchase as he grinds on his cock. “Gods, fuck, _fuck—_ ”

Fjord growls, deep and sudden and unintelligible in his chest, and Molly goes off like a bottlerocket. The hot, boneless rush intensifies as Fjord buries his teeth in the juncture of Molly’s neck and shoulder, rutting hard in the seam of his thigh before following—a warm burst of slickness, the trickle of sweat, a punchy exhale that turns into laughter, giddy and delighted. Molly wraps his arms around Fjord and holds tight.

After a minute or two of complacent snuggling, the heat and sweat clinging to Molly’s skin gets the better of him. He pushes Fjord off, following it up with a kiss to his cheek, and climbs out of bed. In spite of the kiss, the mattress creaks as Fjord flails upright.

“Moll…?”

“Yes, sweets?” Molly grabs the sweatpants off the ground and dabs the cum off his hips and belly.

“Are you—are we okay?”

Molly chucks the sweats into the hamper and comes back to kneel at the edge of the bed. Fjord’s brow is wrinkled and serious, completely sober in the aftermath of pleasure, but he nuzzles readily into Molly’s hand as it strokes through his rumpled hair.

“We’re just dandy. Promise.” He sneaks a kiss, just a quick peck, and smiles at Fjord’s wavering pout. “I’m going to shower and make some breakfast. And then we can have a chat, if you like. Don’t worry yourself, handsome.” He rubs that persistent furrow digging itself between Fjord’s eyebrows. “You’re one of my dearest friends, you know that, right?”

“I mean. Yes.” Fjord cocks a crooked smile. “Likewise.”

“I don’t want to make a big deal out of this, truly, but I’m… honored, I suppose, if that’s the right word. Thank you. For sharing that with me.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Fjord returns, voice low, rumbling, sincere. He catches Molly’s hand as it drifts away, presses a soft kiss to the palm. “Thank you for making it amazing.”

“ _Amazing_ , he says,” Molly echoes, feeling himself settle into the old grooves—sass and flirt and poke, tickle at the edges until he can unravel laughter and blushing smiles. “Just wait ‘til I get my mouth on you, big boy—I’ll show you _amazing_.”

As expected, Fjord buries his face in his hands and rolls back into bed, mumbling embarrassed nothings. Molly laughs and lets him be, and makes a beeline for the shower.

**Author's Note:**

> Matt has referred to Molly as being "genderfluid" but for the purposes of this fic and 'verse I'm leaning a little more toward male presenting nonbinary/broadly GNC. He uses male pronouns but, as Tal said once in a Talks episode, isn't terribly fussed either way.


End file.
